by Diane Kelly
The marshal’s gaze lowered from the skyline to us, traveling from Nick to me and back again, assessing.
I forced a smile and raised a hand in greeting to the marshal, then turned my focus to my boyfriend and partner. “Look, Nick. Neither of us would have gotten any face time with the guy if I hadn’t gone to the tour bus with him. I did what I had to do. For the sake of the investigation.”
He snorted. “Remind me to nominate you for special agent of the month.”
The marshal stepped up. “Am I still needed here?”
“No,” Nick told him. “But thanks for coming out.”
“No problem.”
As the marshal headed off, Nick turned his whiskey-warm eyes on me. Like Brazos, Nick had a few imperfections. A small scar on his cheek. A slightly chipped tooth. A tendency to be a little overbearing. But none of those things were deal breakers. Hell, I wasn’t perfect, either. I was short, lacked curves, and tended to be a little stubborn. Okay, make that a lot stubborn. But despite our flaws, Nick and I worked well together, both professionally and personally.
“Did Brazos agree to pay the taxes?” Nick asked.
I nodded. “He’s going to send the information to his agent.”
“His agent? Why?”
“His agent has all the documentation. He was supposed to hire a CPA to get the taxes done.”
“Obviously he dropped the ball.” Nick frowned. “When is the agent supposed to contact you?”
Um … “When he’s had a chance to look into things.”
“You didn’t set a deadline?”
Um … “No, but I’m sure it will be soon.”
“Who’s the agent?”
Um … I didn’t have a clue who Brazos’s agent was. It hadn’t even crossed my mind to ask. My brain had been a little too preoccupied with the singer’s sculpted, hairless chest and dazzling blue eyes.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit!
Nick’s upper lip quirked in condemnation. “At least tell me you got a direct phone number for Brazos.”
The collections agent had been unable to obtain the number for Brazos’s personal cell phone. None of his staff would give it to her. Neither would his parents. Not without a court order, anyway. I’d been an idiot not to ask Brazos for the number.
I gave Nick the most intelligent response I could, which was “Ummm…”
Nick’s jaw flexed with barely restrained rage. “Do you know what hotel Brazos is staying at?”
I shook my head.
“Jesus Christ, Tara. This makes no sense!”
Nick was right. It didn’t make sense. If the target had been anyone but Brazos Rivers I never would’ve agreed to the flimsy arrangement. I would’ve issued demands, set firm deadlines, locked things down.
“Come on!” Nick barked, grabbing my hand.
He pulled me after him, heading in the direction of his truck. I had to jog to keep up with his long strides.
“What are we doing?”
“We’re going to follow Rivers’s bus to his hotel,” Nick said. “And I am going to deal with the guy this time.”
Humiliation heated my cheeks. The spot where Brazos had kissed me no longer felt sacred and special. Instead, it felt like a mark of shame. I should have to wear a scarlet letter S for Stupid.
I’d screwed up. Royally. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.
As we approached Nick’s pickup, he bleeped the door locks. He jumped into the driver’s seat, while I climbed in the passenger side. Normally, he’d open my door for me but this was no time for niceties. I’d barely clicked my seat belt into place when Nick hit the gas and roared around to the back of the arena.
The tour bus was pulling out a gated exit. Nick floored his gas pedal, hurtling across the expansive parking lot, racing time as the gate began to slide closed behind the bus. But we got there an instant too late. The gate clanged into place, blocking the exit.
Nick slammed a palm against his steering wheel. “Dammit!”
Short of ramming the gate with his bumper, we were out of options here.
Nick shook his head and muttered, “Guess we’ll find out which hotel he stayed at when the police report is filed tomorrow.”
Nick’s jibe was a reference to the rumors that Brazos had trashed several hotel rooms along his tour route. He’d allegedly pulled a chandelier from the ceiling of a suite in St. Louis when he’d drunkenly tried to swing from it. In Little Rock he’d purportedly thrown a serving platter at the wall, shattering a piece of expensive framed art, when room service had mistakenly brought him bacon strips rather than Canadian bacon as ordered. In Houston, he’d supposedly poured a bottle of bubble bath into the outdoor hot tub just for kicks. The tub had to be drained, cleaned, and refilled with fresh water. Whether this childish behavior was fact or fiction was anyone’s guess, but I chose not to believe any of it. After all, my mother had always said not to believe anything I heard and only half of what I saw. My mother was a pretty smart lady. Not smart enough to catch me climbing out my bedroom window at two A.M. back in high school to attend an impromptu keg party in a pasture, but still.
I waved a hand dismissively. “You know how people like to gossip about celebrities. All that talk about Brazos trashing hotel rooms is probably made up.” At least I hoped it was. I’d hate to think he was really that immature. I also chose not to believe the rumors about his sex life, that he had multiple girlfriends along his tour route and, when none of them were available, he supplemented their services with expensive call girls. After all, if any of this were true, we’d have seen photos and videos online, right?
Ignoring me, Nick said, “Maybe we can catch up with the bus if I take another exit.”
He threw his truck into reverse, backed up, and hooked a hard left, hightailing it to the nearest public exit. Unfortunately, traffic on the street was bumper to bumper with concertgoers heading home. Out the side window we saw the bus turn right onto North Houston Street. Then it disappeared from sight, taking Brazos Rivers and his luscious lips and sculpted abs with it.
Where the band was headed was anyone’s guess. The Anatole? The Magnolia Hotel? The Renaissance? Phone calls to the hotels would be futile. The staff were trained not to reveal whether a celebrity guest was in residence. To prevent fans from flocking to the hotel, the bus driver would surely park the bus off-site. We were out of luck, at least for the moment.
Nick cast another disgusted glance my way. It chapped my ass even though he had every reason to do so.
Though I had no reason whatsoever to do so, I tossed him a disgusted glance right back. “I can get the name of Brazos’s agent from the Internet.”
At least I prayed I could.
A quick search on my phone produced the information. Thank goodness. I was tired of feeling like an idiot.
I held up my phone and pointed to the screen. “See? I’ve got the info right here. His agent’s name is Quentin Yarbrough. His office is on St. Paul Street.”
Nick’s jaw flexed again. “You got lucky.”
“Why are you being such an ass?” The more appropriate question would be, Why am I being such a ditz? But I certainly wasn’t going to ask that question of myself. I knew why I was being such a ditz. Because Brazos Rivers and his blue eyes and his sexy smile had gotten my nerves as jingle-jangled as his silver spurs.
“You think I’m the one being an ass?” Nick cut me an incredulous look this time.
Neither of us said anything more on the ride home. I knew I should apologize, but frankly, I was embarrassed to have acted like such a star-struck schoolgirl. Maybe Nick would just forgive me without my having to grovel. He obviously had a high tolerance for ridiculous behavior or he would’ve traded me in long ago for a girl with better manners and more decorum.
When Nick pulled his truck into the driveway of my town house, he left the engine running and didn’t bother getting out of the truck to see me inside. He looked straight ahead at my garage door. “See ya.”
Okay, looked
like he wouldn’t be granting any reprieves. Swallowing my pride, I reached a hand over and laid it on Nick’s arm. “I’m sorry, Nick. I was…” We both knew what I was. An absolute moron. No need to say it out loud, right? “Come inside.”
When he still made no move to turn off the truck, I reached over and turned the truck off myself. He didn’t stop me, a sure sign he’d begun to forgive me. I pulled the keys from the ignition and dropped them into my purse. I pushed out my 32As and batted my eyes at him, like the girl in the stilettos had done earlier to the security guard. “I’ll make it worth your while if you know what I mean.”
The look Nick cast me now was one of unfettered lust. Sheesh. Men are so easy.
Nick slid out of his truck and headed to my front door. I met him on the porch, unlocking the door and grabbing his hand to pull him upstairs to my bedroom. Fortunately, my roommate, Alicia, was out of town for the weekend visiting her folks and working on plans for her upcoming June wedding. Other than my two cats, Nick and I had the place to ourselves.
In less than a minute, Nick and I were naked on top of my patchwork quilt and I was riding him like a twenty-five-cent mechanical pony in front of a grocery store, though without the passing foot traffic. As I threw my head back in ecstasy, words spewed from my mouth, naughty nouns and vixenlike verbs, astonishing adjectives and evocative adverbs, words I am much too mortified to repeat here so you’ll just have to use your imagination. Suffice it to say that my close-call near-kiss with Brazos had me wanting to get down and dirty, fast and filthy, lusty and dusty. My creamy cat, Anne, watched from the doorway, her head tilted as she tried to make sense of the unfamiliar words streaming from my mouth.
My exuberance and dirty talk brought Nick to the brink in no time at all. He grabbed my hips, stilling me as his climax overtook him. I was near the brink myself, teetering on that edge of excruciating ecstasy.
“Don’t stop!” I cried, shoving Nick’s hands away and resuming the ride. Put another quarter in the pony! I’m not done yet!
Nick reached up and grabbed me by the arms, flipping me over onto my back on the bed.
“Yes!” I shrieked, arching my back. “Take me!”
“Nah.” Nick released me. “I think I’ll leave you instead.”
My eyes sprang open. “What?”
Nick stood, tossed the used condom into the trash can, and slipped back into his boxer-briefs. “I’m done here.”
“What!” I was almost there! This type of torture has to be against the law!
I sat up in the bed as he grabbed his jeans from the floor and slid them on. “You can’t do this to me, Nick!”
He zipped his fly. Zzzzzip. “Watch me.”
I grabbed a pillow and hurled it at him. “Get back in this bed! Now!” Can a woman get blue balls? Blue ovaries, perhaps? I was dying here!
He yanked his shirt and boots from the ground and headed out the bedroom door.
Naked, I sprang from my bed. Nick was halfway down the stairs when I launched myself from the upper landing onto his back. The force of my impact sent him stumbling down the remaining stairs, but luckily for both of us Nick managed to stay on his feet. All those years of playing high school football had taught him how to take a hit.
I squeezed him between my bare thighs, hanging on for dear life like a barrel racer rounding a turn. “You need to finish what you started, Nick!”
He eyed me over his shoulder. “I didn’t start this. Brazos Rivers did. He can finish it.”
Using his elbows, he eased me off his back and headed to the front door.
“Nooooo!” I launched myself at him again, this time staying low and taking him out at the knees.
Nick folded and collapsed to the floor of the foyer, laughing as I rolled him onto his back and fumbled with the button on his jeans. “I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed, darlin’. I’m done. At least for the next ten minutes or so.”
“Aaagh!” I let go of his pants and sat back, bare-assed, on my cold tile floor. I crossed my arms over my naked chest and pouted.
“I don’t know what you see in Brazos Rivers, anyway,” he said. “The boy’s got no hair on his chest. It’s like he hasn’t even reached puberty yet.”
“He waxes,” I spat. “Lots of men do it.”
“It’s unnatural.”
“It would be natural for me to have hair on my legs and in my armpits,” I said. “Want me to stop shaving?”
“Yuck.” Nick grimaced. “Point taken.”
I curled up, wrapping my arms around my legs to try to stay warm. The heat was set to sixty-eight degrees, which wasn’t bad if you were fully dressed or under the covers in bed. But if you were sitting buck-naked on the floor, it was damn chilly.
Henry, my fluffy brown Maine coon, cast me a look of derision and jumped down from my TV cabinet, his tail swishing as he headed for a midnight snack in the kitchen.
A smile tugged at Nick’s lips. “You look pathetic.”
“I’m freezing and unfulfilled.” I tilted my head. “Take some pity on me?”
He exhaled a long breath. “Oh, what the hell. Why ruin my one hundred percent satisfaction rating over a little jealousy? Give me some more of that dirty talk and I bet I can take care of you.”
Two minutes later he stood to go, leaving me panting and pleased and no longer cold.
Mmm. I was definitely one hundred percent satisfied. Maybe I should write Nick a review on Yelp.
chapter seven
Don’t Tell Me You Told Me So
First thing Monday morning I stopped by Quentin Yarbrough’s office, a small office suite on the twenty-seventh floor of the One Dallas Centre building. The walls of the reception area sported framed photos of Yarbrough’s famous clients, serving as a veritable who’s who of local music talent. A female folk trio called Fiddle Dee-Dee who’d been featured on The Today Show. An Asian pianist who’d recently won the Van Cliburn competition in nearby Fort Worth. A married duo who sang sappy but profitable easy-listening love songs. And, of course, Yarbrough’s biggest claim to fame, Brazos Rivers and the Boys of the Bayou.
Brazos had autographed the photo. “To Quent—Keep us in high cotton. Hey howdy! Brazos and the Boys.”
The words he’d written in my copy of Stud Farm were far more suggestive. “Tara—Let me show you what’s under the hat. XXX, Brazos.”
Yarbrough’s receptionist, a pretty yet professional-looking blonde, completed her call, jotted a message on a pink phone slip, and added it to a sizable stack accumulating in a bin on the corner of her desk. She looked up at me. “Good morning. How may I help you?”
I stepped up to her desk and handed her my card. “I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway. I need to speak with Mr. Yarbrough.”
Her eyes scanned my card before returning to my face. “Mr. Yarbrough’s on vacation in Europe. He’ll be back in the office on Friday.”
Dammit! I’d hoped to firm things up today. Not only did I want to collect the money owed to the IRS, but I’d hoped to get this resolved to spare Brazos the expense of additional interest. Heck, since Friday alone his outstanding bill had accrued another $6,575.34.
“May I tell him what it’s regarding?” she asked.
I wasn’t sure whether she was doing her job or just being nosy, but either way it couldn’t hurt to tell her. “It’s about Brazos Rivers.”
She smiled an odd little smile, maybe even a wry smile. What did that mean?
“Please have Mr. Yarbrough call me as soon as he returns,” I said. “It’s urgent.”
She placed my card in the bin. “I’ll let him know.”
“Thanks.” I turned to go, but on second thought decided to take my chances and returned to her desk. “There’s something you can do for me now.”
“Yes?”
“I need a direct phone number for Brazos.”
She eyed me suspiciously. “You work for the federal government. Don’t you have access to that information?”
Despite all the hullabaloo about th
e NSA illegally reading the general public’s e-mail, law-abiding government employees had far less access to personal data than people might expect. Certain information could not be legally shared across agencies, or even within an agency. My exhaustive search had turned up no landline or cell number registered under the Brazos Rivers pseudonym or his real name. Either Brazos used one of those untraceable prepaid cell phones or the number for his phone had been registered in someone else’s name.
“There’s no listing for him in any database,” I said.
The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m not authorized to give out personal information about our clients.”
I’d figured as much, but it never hurt to try. Sometimes people feared repercussions if they failed to cooperate. Others assumed they were legally required to give out information when requested by a federal agent. Of course I did nothing to persuade them otherwise, though, when asked, I told them honestly that they had a right to refuse to provide the information unless directed by a court order. Fortunately, most didn’t think to question me.
“Understood,” I told the woman. I’d just as soon wrestle the woman to the floor and search her files for the information I sought, but no sense jeopardizing the job I’d only recently got back. “Have a nice day.”
Frustrated and ashamed, I headed over to my office at the IRS, hoping Nick wouldn’t grill me. No such luck. The second I reached my office door he looked up from his desk across the hall.
“How’d it go at Yarbrough’s office?” he asked. “Did you set a firm deadline for him to file Dusty Boogers’s tax returns?”
“His name’s not Dusty Boogers,” I said, rolling my eyes. “It’s Brazos Rivers.”
“Actually it’s Winthrop Merriweather, remember?” Nick emitted a half grunt, half chuckle (a grunkle?). “Frankly, I’d prefer Dusty Boogers to Winthrop any day.”
My fingers tightened around the handle of my briefcase and I exhaled a long breath. “Yarbrough’s out of the country until Friday.”
Nick’s expression was smug. “I hate to say I told you so—”
“Then don’t!” I snapped, my ass freshly chapped by Nick’s smirk. “Besides, Friday’s only four days from now and I’ve got other cases that need my attention.”